


between the air and the word

by paperiuni



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Hopeful Ending, M/M, Moment in time, Tiniest of Trespasser Spoilers, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:46:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6197389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperiuni/pseuds/paperiuni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all the years he's sat on the Magisterium, fought tooth and nail against a thousand years of tradition, Bull has never asked him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	between the air and the word

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I like to think about their lives after _Trespasser_ , and then I need to picture this moment.

In the end, there is no great tipping point. No dramatic assassination attempt or by-the-skin-of-your-teeth escape.

They talk about the matter rarely, into the humming crystals when spirits are low, or into the scant air between their bodies when they lie tangled together after sex.

Until one winter night, when the wind is hard from the sea and Dorian might smell an ever-burning island on its gusts, and he sits among the last papers of the day. They've been sidelined in favour of a more pleasant communication. His voice blurring through the crystal, Bull recounts the news about a recent bounty posting in Caimen Brea. He doesn't say it, but he misses Krem, who took half the company down Val Firmin way. The tiny snags and dips in his tone, the lingering pace of his words, betray his mood.

If one's beloved is a voice in the night, flung far on the grace of half-forgotten spellcraft, then that is what one takes, what one learns, what one loves. No matter what one might miss.

"You'll be right on the southern border," Dorian says. Cremisius can handle himself; even Bull might not handle the Imperial army should it get arch about the Chargers and their Inquisition connections.

"Just on the border, not over it."

"Too close for my comfort." He flicks through another page of the edict draft he's supposed to understand by morning. "I need you to stay breathing, you great oaf."

Dorian catches himself even as he hears Bull sigh, untold miles away. _I need_ , a naked demand, not even _You'd better_ or _I'd vastly prefer_.

"I know you know this," he begins, ready to smooth it over. "I just--"

Something rustles, distorted by the crystal, logs in a fire or the shift of dry paper. A long, low spout of Qunlat, which means Bull is either fondly cursing Dorian, or--

The lessons Dorian still insists on have taken root. Litanies of verbs, the names of animals, and excerpts of holy texts, whatever Bull remembers. Half to appease him, Dorian accepts the task.

"Hmm, give me a moment. That was a question. ' _How can I..._ ' " Bull huffs through the crystal, amused or at least diverted, as Dorian parses the sentence.

It's not a hard one. Dorian feels it over in his mind, and his heart turns slowly in his chest.

He has to say something. Silence is a noose when the sound of a voice is all you have to carry your meaning.

In all the years he's sat on the Magisterium, fought tooth and nail against a thousand years of tradition, Bull has never asked him. For anything more than he's been able to give, in scraps and shreds and stolen moments.

So he repeats Bull's words back to him, in the common tongue they share.

" ' _How can I breathe, when my air is in your lungs?_ ' "

Bull laughs, in his tavern room north of Hunter Fell, laughs like in those rare times when Dorian's found him out. Dorian smothers a suspiciously damp chuckle into his hand. Looks at the draft in his lap, at the crystal resting on his knee.

And decides.


End file.
